He sensed movement; heard the shuffle of something over snow, a crinkle, and then a strange chuffing. Dog? A moment later, the weight on his back rocked. His middle cramped against another grab of pain, and he heard the uhhh drop from his mouth.
“Sorry,” the little girl whispered. “Sorry, sorry, but I have to do this, I’m so sorry . . .”
“You ready?” the boy called.
“Yeah. He moaned again.” The little girl sounded shaky.
“Don’t get freaked, honey,” the older girl said. “He’s probably out.”
No . . . here . . . I’m . . .
“I’m okay.” Pause. “Got my feet up.”
“All right, on three,” the boy said. “You push, I’ll pull.”
That snagged his attention in a way nothing else could. No, wait . . . hurt, don’t hurt me again. Marshaling his strength, Chris put everything he had into the simple act of opening his eyes. But there was a strange pressure around his forehead and over his eyes, and he just couldn’t.
A second later, there came another fiery jolt. No, no. A grinding shudder rocked his hips, and he moaned. Door. That must be it. They’re trying to lift . . . His mind skipped, tried tripping off that cliff of what passed for consciousness again. “Nuhhh . . .”
“Stop, stop!” The little girl, her voice hitching up a notch. “We’re hurting him!”
“Can’t help that.” The boy again, not angry but impatient and unhappy, almost annoyed: the voice of someone who’d rather be anywhere else. “It’s going to hurt no matter what—”
“Wait, let’s think this through,” the older girl said. “If we can give him a few seconds and let him wake up, he might be able to help us help him.”
“How’s he going to do that if his back’s broken?” the boy said.
Broken. The word was a razor that sliced through Chris’s pain. Broken?
“I can’t assess him until he’s fully conscious. Even if he can’t move his legs, he could brace himself with his arms,” the older girl said.
“I don’t know,” the boy said. “You saw his hand.”
Hand. What were they talking about? Chris didn’t feel anything. God, maybe that meant his hand was—
“Maybe we can bandage it. I don’t know. But if he can help, enough for us to slide something solid underneath, get him off the snow . . .”
Snow. As soon as she said it, he could feel the wet against his right cheek and beneath his chest where his body warmth had melted the snow. I’m on the snow. No, that wasn’t quite right. He was in it. That had to be it. He was down in the snow. Yet he wasn’t freezing. The air felt warm and carried a scent that was strange and wet, not snowmelt or regular water but like a rusted fender.
“Hannah’s right.” Not the older boy but one closer to the little girl’s age: the kid called Eli. “I bet I could get in there with the bolt cutters. Then all I got to do is cut the spikes and we lift the door right off. Bet it wouldn’t hurt him as much. It might even be faster.”
Bolt cutters? Spikes?
“It would be better than taking a chance of ripping them out, Jayden,” Hannah said. “He’s already bleeding pretty badly.”
Blood. What he smelled—that wet rust stink—and lay in was his own blood. Hurt. Bleeding . . . what . . . But his back couldn’t be broken, it couldn’t, it—
“I thought you said he’s bleeding out,” Jayden said.
“I said maybe, and there’s no point in making this worse. The more I think about it, the more I worry that if a spike’s compressing an artery and we pull it out—”
Oh Jesus. The girl, Hannah, was still talking, but her voice receded to a buzz as the memory suddenly crashed into his mind as if the dam holding it back had burst: Nathan, the brittle snap of his neck as that gigantic log swept back to knock him from his horse. Then he’d started forward—stupid, a mistake—and there had been a monstrous sound of something crashing through trees, but not from the side. From above. Something dark, huge, rushing for his face. For a moment, he hadn’t been able to move, not only from surprise but because his feet . . . No, snowshoes, they were stuck, jammed into the snow. . . He’d spied a bottle-green glint of glass, the bristle of iron spikes, and then he’d understood: the thing was a tiger-trap made out of a huge barn door, barreling straight down from the trees, heading right for him.
Pushed off, tried getting out of the way. But he hadn’t been fast enough. He remembered the weight driving him down, that ripping in his legs, his flesh tearing. The unbelievable pain of those spikes. The sudden pulse of blood. Can’t let them move the door. He had visions of the spikes that might be both threatening and saving him being suddenly withdrawn, popping free like corks, and then his life surging in hot red rivers onto the snow.
Come on. Chris put everything he had into it; felt the twitch of small muscles. The pressure against his eyelids was huge. Or I’m really this weak, and if I am, I will die.
“Hey!” the younger girl called. “Hey, guys, he’s opening his eyes, he’s—”
“Uhhh.” His lids cranked back by degrees, a superhuman effort that brought out the sweat along his upper lip and on his neck. But he just couldn’t manage to open his eyes all the way. “Huhh . . .”
“Oh gosh,” the girl said, and then he felt her fingers tugging, the pressure suddenly easing as she pushed his watch cap onto his forehead. “No wonder. Is that better?”
Yes. His lids creaked open, and there she was, less than six inches from his face. He couldn’t tell much. Not only had the effort drained him, the light was dim, and his eyes didn’t want to focus. “Uhhh,” he said again.
“Hey, he’s awake! His eyes are open!” The little girl beamed. “Hi.”
“Huh,” he grunted, then raked his swollen tongue over numb, dry lips.
“Are you thirsty? Do you want a drink of water?”
“Mmm.” He thought her eyes were light blue, and she looked about eight, maybe nine years old. How had she found him? Nathan was dead. Then who? Someone else . . . Then he had the name, saw her face floating like a gauzy cloud across his vision: Lena. They were on their way to Oren, had taken the long way because . . . Rule, chasing us, Weller . . .
“Hey, he’s thirsty!” she called. Beyond the girl, he now saw a wide funnel trenched out of snow where she must’ve dug her way in. “He wants a drink!”
“Scoot on out, honey,” Hannah said. “Let me take a look at him.”
“Okay.” To him: “Don’t worry. There’s plenty of time before dark. We’ll get you out. We found you, me and Eli. I shook out my emergency blanket to make you a tent, and then me and my dog crawled in to keep you warm until Eli could get back with help. But it’s going to be okay now. We got you. What’s your name?”
“Cuh . . .” His parched throat made a clicking sound. “CuhChrisss.” The word sounded like a balloon with all the air rushing out. “Chrisss . . .”
“Chris?” she said, brightening as he managed a nod. Sudden tears pricked the backs of his eyes because, oh God, hearing his name never had seemed quite so wonderful.
“Well, hi,” the little girl said. “My name’s Ellie.”
Ellie? That warm bloom of relief suddenly shriveled in his gut. He remembered the argument, Alex pleading with him to search for the little girl. There just couldn’t be that many Ellies in this general area. She’s the right age. This has to be her.
“Chris, are you okay?” A wrinkle of worry creased the space above Ellie’s nose. “Are you feeling sick? Does it hurt more?”
“I . . .” His tongue balked. With fresh terror, he thought, Can’t tell. Mustn’t. They might leave him here to die. They might kill him. “Y-yes, it . . . it h-hurts,” he managed, and this was no lie.
“Ellie?” It was Hannah. “Is he—”
“I think you better get in here. He doesn’t look so good.” Scooting sideways, Ellie batted away one crinkly corner of that emergency blanket. A spoke of light speared the gloom. Chris could clearly see how the barn door had driven him a good foot into the snowpack before lodging itself tight. He also had a much better view of the blood.
No. A fresh spasm of horror twisted in his chest. When he exhaled, his breath showed in small red ripples. That’s too much, I’ve lost too much—
Beyond the limits of his prison of snow and spikes and blood, he heard a dog’s welcoming huff and then Ellie say, “What?” Pause; a murmur from the older girl. “Yeah,” Ellie said, “there’s a lot, and I can feel it still coming. It’s not spreading, but—” Evidently, someone up there understood this might not be great for him to hear, because that emergency blanket dropped back into place, shuttering out the light.
Talking about the blood. He swallowed back a scream. Not spreading, because it’s melting into the snow under me.
A moment later, he heard a rustle, saw the gloom peel back and then a gloved hand appear, followed by an arm, a shoulder, and finally a girl, on her back, slipping down the chute.
“Hi.” Stopping short of the blood lake in which he lay, she brushed a thick, buckwheat-brown braid from her shoulder and hitched onto her side to face him. “I’m Han—” She stopped dead, a look of disbelief spreading over her face.
“Oh my God.” Her voice was small and shocked. She raised a gloved hand to her mouth as if to somehow stopper what came next. “Simon?”
“What?” His own voice was faraway, foggy with pain. “Who?”
“I—” she began, and then he saw her eyes, which were the color of soft ash, flit to his throat. Her eyebrows tented in a frown. “What did you say your name was?”
“Cuh-Chris.” His dry throat gnarled. “Prentiss.”
